Twisted
by nicevenn
Summary: Draco has no idea what he's asking for. WARNING: TORTURE. AU. Set during the summer before Draco's sixth year. Pretends Barty escaped at the end of GOF.


He is staring at you again. His eyes linger on your face even when you meet his gaze. They don't dart away like they used to; the shy glances are history. You watch as the pink tip of his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He wants you, and he is growing bold because time is running out.

Desperation mars his face as the time to return to Hogwarts draws near; his mouth is drawn, his eyes shadowed and careworn. He is clinging to that insincere desire to serve the Dark Lord and rise among the ranks of Death Eaters. But he knows nothing of what it is to serve your master. He knows only his father's deceitful masks and self-serving loyalty.

Oh, but he is weaker than Lucius, and at its centre his heart is pure. He grimaces in your master's presence, at the sight of his face; it is not a bewitching brand of evil, the kind he used to read about in fairy tales. Your looks are more appealing to him. The poor, innocent fool. He has yet to learn that a pretty wrapping doesn't mask the stench of something rotten. His interest in the Dark Arts is but a childish whimsy, a castle built in the air; one taste of what it is to torture or kill a man, and its foundations will crumble.

Will you give him what he wants? Can you resist that tempting, young flesh when it is offered so freely? When it begs to be tainted by your touch?

You know why he wants you. He thinks you are alike, that you can find comfort in each other. Two men following the same dark path in order to rise above their fathers. He wants to travel that road with you, entertains the possibility that he can win your twisted love. The traitor. Your heart beats only in service of your master; his should do the same.

You know just how to play him. Your eyes flicker when his hand brushes yours at tea. Your lips twitch and curve in a knowing smirk when he takes his time retiring to his room for the night, his eyes inviting you to follow. He needs to think that he has charmed you, that he has you snug around his little finger, eager to pleasure and worship him.

The days come and go, and still you have to wait. You can't give in too soon; he has to start to wonder if the desire he saw in your gaze was ever really there. Only when he begins to lose hope that he will get to feel your tongue in

his mouth and in his arse before he leaves for school will you strike. Then he will be the one wrapped around your finger, and he will take whatever you dish out. He will do anything to keep from losing you.

Finally, the time has come. You down the rest of the Firewhiskey in your glass, then set it down on the table and follow him to his bedroom. This time, he left without stopping to look back over his shoulder.

He is thrilled to see you. He pulls you into a tight embrace and whispers that he thought you'd never come. As he breathes in your scent, you tell him that you could not stay away any longer, that you want and need him so badly you can hardly breathe. His mouth opens easily for your tongue, and you delve into the wetness and heat.

How long can you restrain yourself? How long before the sickness takes over and you have to hear him scream? An hour? A minute? You don't want to lose control too soon.

He watches and grins when you stop to cast every locking and privacy charm you know. Little does he know that before the night is over, he will wish you hadn't done that. When you have finished, he takes you by the hand and leads you to the bed.

He is less reserved than you imagined. Not five minutes pass before he straddles you and slides his hand into your trousers. His breath is hot against your face as he takes out your cock and wraps his slender fingers around the shaft. He watches your reactions to his ministrations; it doesn't take him long to figure out that you like it rough. He digs his thumb too hard into the slit, and you hiss as pain and pleasure course through your veins in perfect harmony.

You are more than happy to return the favour. His muscles tense as you grip him firmly, then soothe his aching cock with a few delicate strokes; his eyes squeeze shut when your fingers clamp down on his sac like a wolf trap, then relax when you let go and massage him gently.

When he looks at you again, his eyes are different from before. They are still darkened with lust, but now they are wide with apprehension. He doesn't know what will come next. He fears you, and yet he has never wanted you more. You pull him closer, and whisper filth in his ear while digging your fingertips into his hips, hard enough to leave marks on the pale skin. He moans, mesmerised by the sight of your cocks caught in between your bodies.

"Tell me what you want," you say.

He thinks for far too long, so you reach up and twist his nipple hard enough to make him cry out. Your teeth tug on the edge of his ear. "Tell me."

"Fuck me," he answers, at last.

You are more than happy to oblige. Within seconds you have him bent over the side of the bed, and your tongue is pushing as deep into his arse as it can go. He moans out your name and pushes back against your mouth. He is panting, begging, too lost in bliss to protest when your fingernails leave bloody, red trails all along his sides. This one could learn the fine art of mixing pain and pleasure, if only he had the right teacher.

That you are not.

He gasps when you shove a finger inside his saliva-slicked passage, but quickly adjusts to the sensation and begins to buck beneath you as you promise to give it to him so good he'll still feel you when he returns for winter break. Your breath is hot against his ear as you thrust into him without warning, sheathing yourself in one go.

He tenses around you, cries out in pain. Your eyes lock on the pale fingers clenching the sheets, and you can't stop yourself from pulling out so that you can shove forward again and watch them tighten and twist the dark bedding.

"Be careful!" he says.

"Sorry," you whisper. "Lost control… you feel so good."

And you fuck him slowly, until he relaxes again and turns his head to kiss you. You can't quite cover his mouth from this angle, but your tongues twine and he begins to return your thrusts. His breath quickens, and soft moans fall from his lips.

Don't you wish this could be enough? He could be your lover. So young and innocent and eager to seek pleasure with you. But that will never be, because there is a part of you that won't be satisfied until he is screaming and twisting and begging for mercy that you will not give.

You can't hold back any longer. You reach into the pocket of the discarded trousers lying next to you, take out your wand, and leave it within close reach. He drops his head forward and meets every thrust as you begin to ride him faster and harder. His hand is working between his body and the mattress. You replace it with your own and grit your teeth, waiting until his breathing becomes shaky. If you do it too soon, he won't come.

He is close. So close. You can feel him tense beneath you. With your free hand, you pick up your wand.

"iCrucio!/i"

His sudden shriek of pain is music to your ears. You pound into him as his cock begins to twitch along with the rest of his body, covering your hand with scalding come. His muscles clamp down around you, and now you have to hold on to stay inside him as his body twists and jerks. Your lips stretch over your teeth in that insane smile of yours.

This is what you live for, isn't it? To punish all those who don't show your master the same loyalty and reverence that you do. Is there a greater pleasure than that which you derive from their suffering?

You end the curse so that you can turn him over onto his back. It is such a waste not to be able to see his face.

His cheeks are flushed and wet with fresh tears.

"Why?" he manages to ask while gulping lungfuls of air.

You put a finger to his lips. "Hush, my love. I gave you your pleasure—now allow me to take mine."

He turns his head to the side when you try to kiss him. "No, don't."

You lick his neck instead. He tries to push you away, but he hasn't recovered from the curse and is too weak. You force his thighs back against his chest and plunge your cock back into that tight heat. A pained groan leaves his throat as you begin to rock in and out of him at a brutal pace.

Your wand is whispers to you; its wood is smooth between your fingers.

He covers your hand with his own. "Please, no."

Something snaps inside you at his words. With a sadistic curl of your lip, you cast the Torture Curse again. Your hyena-like cackle fills the room as his body begins to twitch again. You delight in fucking him straight through the paroxysm. His pained screams and muscle spasms are the most erotic thing you've ever known.

You're keeping him under for too long. He is young and his threshold for pain is low. You know you have to end the curse, but you have to come, first. It takes all of your strength to hold him down as you seek your pleasure in his tortured body. But it's worth it because the resulting orgasm is the most intense you've ever known. Your head rolls back and you howl as it rushes through you, wave after, wave after wave.

At last, you release him from the curse. He lies whimpering and half-conscious beneath you, trembling still. You lick the salty tears off his face and push the sweaty white-blond hair off his forehead. When he winces and tries to turn away, you hold his face between both hands.

"You did well, my pet. So very well."

He refuses to look at you, so you let go and bury your head in the crook of his neck. It's a while before you regain your strength and pull out of him. He stares at the ceiling as you lie down next to him and kiss his shoulder.

"That was nothing," you tell him. "Nothing compared to what the Dark Lord will do to you if you fail."

A tear escapes the corner of his eye and runs down his temple. You could reach out and wipe it off, but you leave it to dry on its own.

The End.


End file.
